when all the ships have turned to ash
i will be left unharmed, alone
i will be left unharmed, alone
Next time? Why don’t we start searching today?
I do not expect it. I do not expect the way she draws toward me, rather than away—and I suppose that comes from a lifetime away from children, from not truly understanding them. Our society kept them, largely, separate. At a certain age boys were sent to the academy. Girls, sometimes, were sent to private school to become nurses or maids—but otherwise they were kept quietly at home, keeping house, ensuring when we went to war nothing fell apart.
By her age, responsibility had been forced upon all of us. Be seen and not heard. Do not distract the adults. A girl her age would never, under any circumstances, approach a man of my stature. Much less make such personal inquiries.
(I wonder, then, if it is strange that I answered them).
She does not leave room for an argument, however, and I follow her closely as she steps away, to search for my friend who we will not find.
“What do they say to you?” I ask. The silence between myself and others does not usually make me uncomfortable. But between myself and a child? It seems to echo. It seems to resound. My thoughts grow too loud, and again and again I think of how much easier it would have been had one of us—Bondike or I—been killed.
If I had died? If I had died, no one would have ever known her secret. She would have never been sentence do death through banishment. If I had died, he—she—might have been happy.
That is a difficult things to come to terms with; and harder still, to think of, when this young girl says she can speak to the dead. I make a grand gesture of searching through the tall grass and around stones; but my soul feels pitted. It feels gutted like a fruit. I also try not to think of how this girl's life has begun with a lie. A tremendous, unforgivable lie. "Does your mother know you are here?" I ask, quietly. I do not confess that I know her.
☼
I do not expect it. I do not expect the way she draws toward me, rather than away—and I suppose that comes from a lifetime away from children, from not truly understanding them. Our society kept them, largely, separate. At a certain age boys were sent to the academy. Girls, sometimes, were sent to private school to become nurses or maids—but otherwise they were kept quietly at home, keeping house, ensuring when we went to war nothing fell apart.
By her age, responsibility had been forced upon all of us. Be seen and not heard. Do not distract the adults. A girl her age would never, under any circumstances, approach a man of my stature. Much less make such personal inquiries.
(I wonder, then, if it is strange that I answered them).
She does not leave room for an argument, however, and I follow her closely as she steps away, to search for my friend who we will not find.
“What do they say to you?” I ask. The silence between myself and others does not usually make me uncomfortable. But between myself and a child? It seems to echo. It seems to resound. My thoughts grow too loud, and again and again I think of how much easier it would have been had one of us—Bondike or I—been killed.
If I had died? If I had died, no one would have ever known her secret. She would have never been sentence do death through banishment. If I had died, he—she—might have been happy.
That is a difficult things to come to terms with; and harder still, to think of, when this young girl says she can speak to the dead. I make a grand gesture of searching through the tall grass and around stones; but my soul feels pitted. It feels gutted like a fruit. I also try not to think of how this girl's life has begun with a lie. A tremendous, unforgivable lie. "Does your mother know you are here?" I ask, quietly. I do not confess that I know her.
@Elliana"speaks" space for notes
